Winifred stood flat-footed with astonishment as a horse nickered outside and someone gruffly declared, “That there is his gruella. We’ve caught up to him.”
Winifred glanced at Chester Luce. “What should we do?”
“Why ask me?”
“You are the mayor.”
There were days, many days, when Chester Luce wished he wasn’t, when he wished he had never set foot in Coffin Varnish and never spent every cent he had to build and furnish the general store. At the time, he had thought it was the right thing to do. His wife said it was, anyway.
The mercantile profession was in Chester’s blood. His father had run a general store, and his father’s father before him. The Luces prided themselves on their head for business.
By rights Chester should have taken over the family store in Buffalo, New York. He was the oldest son. His father had come right out and told him it would be his one day. But that was not enough for Chester. He did not want his life handed to him. He wanted to strike off on his own, to make something of himself through his own sweat and brain. That, and his wife had a yearning to see the West.
So one day Chester rode into the collection of huts and tents that was to become Coffin Varnish, and when he assessed the situation, when he carefully weighed all the factors a good businessman had to consider, and his wife gave her opinion, he concluded he had found that ideal prospect. It never occurred to him that Coffin Varnish might wither and die. He never conceived he could end up a penniless failure.
Or dead. Chester had never witnessed a saloon shoot-out, but he had heard enough about them to know that bystanders as often as not fell victim to stray lead, and in his estimation dying by accident had nothing to commend it over dying by design. Dead was dead.
“We should get out of here,” Chester said to Win.
Together they turned toward the batwings and together they froze.
Filling the doorway was a bear of a man with a bristly black beard and an unkempt mane of black hair that spilled from under a floppy hat. His homespun clothes were rumpled and in need of washing, his boots badly scuffed. He shoved on through, nearly tearing the batwings from their hinges, and glared about him. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Where is that mangy son of a bitch?”
Win and Chester glanced toward the table in the far corner and were struck speechless.
Edison Farnsworth still sat in a chair, the saddlebags in front of him. Near him stood Lafferty. But the chair across from Farnsworth, the chair in which Jeeter Frost had been sitting not twenty seconds ago, was empty.
“Didn’t any of you hear me?” the man demanded. “Where is the owner of that gruella at the hitch rail?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Chester said in bewilderment.
“Me either,” Win said.
“My name is Temple Blight,” the man said, moving warily toward the bar, one big hand on a Remington revolver tucked under his wide black leather belt. “These here are my brothers, Zebulon and Barnabas. The bastard who owns that gruella killed another brother of ours and we aim to make him pay.”
The other two Blights were slightly shorter but equally scruffy versions of Temple. One had a Winchester, the other a shotgun.
Temple drew the Remington and cocked it. Ever so carefully, he leaned over the bar so he could see the other side. “Damnation. He’s not here.” Wheeling around, he stalked toward the newspapermen. “Who are you two and what are you doing here?”
Edison Farnsworth sniffed in indignation. “I don’t see where it is any of your concern, but if you must know, my assistant and I work for the Dodge City Times.”
“Did you see a man come in here? A runt in buckskins wearing a pearl-handled Colt?”
“You say he killed your brother?” Farnsworth asked.
Temple Blight scowled. “The youngest of us, Simeon. Shot him for no reason. Me and my other brothers were upstairs with doves or we’d have bucked him out in gore then and there.”
Young Lafferty indulged in his habit of clearing his throat before he spoke. “This Frost shot your brother without cause?”
“They were arguing over cards,” Temple said. “Hardly enough cause as far as I am concerned.” He turned his back to the table and leaned against it. “Where in hell can he have gotten to?” He pointed at the sibling with the Winchester. “Zeb, you go check the outhouse. Barnabas, sit out front and keep an eye on the gruella. Sooner or later Frost is bound to show.”
“Sooner rather than later,” came a voice from under the table.
Startled, Temple Blight straightened and whirled. He was not quite all the way around when a pistol barrel poked from under the table, pointed at his groin. The pistol cracked, and Temple shrieked and clutched at himself, dropping his Remington. The next shot caught him smack in the center of the forehead and blew out the rear of his cranium in a spray of hair and gore.
By then Zebulon and Barnabas Blight were rushing to their brother’s aid. Zeb jerked his Winchester to his shoulder, but he did not quite have it level when the pistol under the table boomed a third time and Zeb’s left eyeball dissolved.
Barnabas did not bother with aiming. He simply trained his shotgun at the table. But he had to thumb back the hammers before he could fire. It only took a second and a half, which was long enough for the pistol under the table to go off twice more. Slugs smacked into Barnabas and he staggered back, swearing. He had been shot through the heart. Gamely, with his final flicker of life, he squeezed both triggers.
The shotgun was not pointed under the table. It was pointed at the chair in which Edison Farnsworth sat. Farnsworth was starting to rise when it went off, and the full force of both barrels, loaded with buckshot, caught him in the chest. His chest exploded like so much melon and the impact lifted him off his feet and flung him onto his back on top of the table.
In the silence that ensued, none of the living moved. Lafferty lay on the floor where he had dived when the first shot rang out. Winifred and Chester were rooted in shock.
A foot slid out from under the table, and another foot, and then the rest of Jeeter Frost. He stepped clear of Edison Farnsworth’s dangling legs and calmly commenced reloading.
“You shot them!” Chester Luce blurted.
“I sure as hell did,” Jeeter Frost agreed.
“You killed them!”
“Generally when I shoot it is to kill,” Jeeter said. “They were close enough. It was easy.”
Winifred found his voice. “But you shot them from under the table! They didn’t stand a prayer.”
“And how much of a chance do you reckon they’d have given me?” Jeeter rejoined. “What did you expect? That we’d go out in the street and stand back to back and take ten steps like in a duel?” He laughed.
“No, no,” Win said, gaping at the bodies. He had seen men shot before but never like this, never so abruptly, so methodically, so—so—coldly, as if they were targets in a shooting gallery. Most of the shootings he witnessed were drunken affrays waged in the heat of anger and under the influence of liquor.
“Four men dead!” Chester exclaimed. “Just like that!” He snapped his pudgy fingers.
“They were lying about me not having cause,” Jeeter said. “That brother of theirs, the young one, was cheating at cards. I caught him and he pulled his iron on me.” He leaned toward the table and examined the hideously huge cavity in Edison Farnsworth’s chest. Rib bones gleamed, framing internal organs. “Too bad about this fella. I was just getting used to his airs.” He turned. “How are you doing down there, sonny? Were you hit?”
Frank Lafferty had sat up and was groping himself. “Apparently not,” he said in amazement. “I am unscathed.” He slowly rose, his horrified gaze glued to the remains of his associate. “I never saw anyone move so fast as when you ducked under that table.”